


thoughtless

by 님 (nymmiah)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Porn With Plot, Religious Guilt, Rough Oral Sex, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymmiah/pseuds/%EB%8B%98
Summary: In the wake of the Sultana's murder and the usurping of the Crystal Braves, the Warrior of Light would ask of her dearest friend a favour most selfish. Haurchefant, fool that he was, would deny her nothing.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	1. Favour

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing derailed on me.  
> It was supposed to be Shameless Smut With Some Humour(C) but it turned into Crying Into A Pillow As Your Unrequited Love Fucks You Into The Couch Gently Upon Your Request(TM).

T'was indeed a queer sight: a tall, willowy viera led by the arm of the bastard son of Lord Edmond de Fortemps down the stone streets of Ishgard.

Upon her back stood proudly a staff of curious make, the crest of which boasted a most peculiar crystal that glimmered in the weak Coerthas sunlight, and she was garbed most conservatively, presumably for the coldness of the wind for it was well known of the propensity of viera to be found in scandalous manners of undress.

She was presumably a guest of some import, that Lord Fortemps should send his favoured son to retrieve an outlander and guide her through the city proper.

Only later that morn, as whispers spread rumours and truths through the city, would onlookers realise that the viera had in fact been the famed Warrior of Light, whose features were ever darkened from their thoughts and whose name ever escaped one's memories.

Mostly oblivious to the smoke and noise that surrounded her arrival to the city, the viera kept her chin high as she followed Ser Haurchefant of the Silver Fuller down the streets of Ishgard, as he brought them to the Last Vigil where the proud manse of Fortemps stood.

Grief remained a constant roar within her breast and loss aggrieved her every step--but until she was safely ensconced within this sanctuary offered by her most dearest of friends...

She would remain proud and she would remain untouched.

* * *

The Warrior of Light was a lovely sight, her countenance soft and open as she lay upon the settee. Sprawled out so indolently, she was the very picture of invitation. Her long limbs were smooth, and her hair tumbled most indecently across the cushions. The tips of her ears brushed against the armrest, and she had tangled her fingers into the embroidered fabric and tassels of the cushions, clutching at them with a tightness to her grip that bespoke of a silent desperation.

Had her eyes not been swollen red with previously and yet shed tears, he would have taken greater pains to watch her and commit this sight to his memory.

“My dearest friend,” Haurchefant murmured as he moved in, cradling her mien within his palm with a gentle smile upon his own countenance. “Do not look at me so, with such tender eyes. You already have my heart; must you steal away my attentions too?”

“You needn’t flatter me, Haurchefant. You and I both know that I look dreadful,” she rebuked, the quiet laugh he’d startled from her sounding far more akin to a sob. Politely, he commented not on that.

“A good night’s rest shall certainly help in diminishing this dread that lurks upon your features,” Haurchefant agreed, a thrill of satisfaction arising when she laughed once more, “but you are radiant as you always are.”

The Warrior’s grip upon the various tassels had loosened. Her hand, delicate for all of the strength lying within, came to rest over his own where it cradled her mien. She leaned into his touch, lowering her lashes over the amber-bright of her eyes. She then sighed, her breast rising and falling from the force of her exhale.

“You should have been called Ser Haurchefant of the Silver Tongue instead,” she murmured. “I deserve not a whit of your comfort.”

He called her name out, watching as her eyes fluttered open once more. The hue of her eyes was more akin to gold than cocoa in the low lighting of the candles in the room, a rich orange colour that reminded him of intoxicating whiskey.

“My friend, you deserve all that I can give,” he replied quietly. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You deserve all that this world has to offer; this awful world that you have saved time and time again that refuses to justly reward you as is your due.”

The Warrior let out another sigh, slow and drawn out. It shook, the tremulous sound belying the grief that was so evident in her eyes.

She breathed in, she breathed out, the warmth of her breath ghosting against the skin of his chest.

Her breath caught, and he could feel her shudder beneath his lips, soft sobs tearing from her throat unbidden. He allowed himself no opportunity to spy upon her weakness. Pulling her into his arms, he held the Warrior of Light as she wept grievously for her losses, holding her tightly to his chest as she shed her misery unto his bosom. She grasped desperately at his gambeson, her arms a vice around him as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded.

To have been so cruelly left bereft of her fellow Scions and her name smeared by a nation she had faithfully aided for naught more than false accusations--had he not been holding her, he would have surely been overcome by his fury on her behalf.

The Warrior was of greater import than retribution and justice; she was breaking within his embrace and he had naught but his hands and meagre words to hold her pieces together.

Loss and betrayal were not easily overcome, but he knew that the Warrior would be able to do so. Until she could shelve away her tears, he would offer her what little comfort she would take.

* * *

That they were undisturbed for so many bells spoke of the discrete tact of the keep's staff. The Warrior's sobs had quietened as time passed, though her shoulders yet shook with silent tremors.

Sometime during her grief, Haurchefant had pulled her into his lap, allowing her to curl up within his hold. Her head was tucked under his chin, and the softness of her ears brushed against his throat with each breath she took.

"Haurchefant…" She called his name out so miserably, voice weak and broken from her hours of weeping. "I don't want to think anymore."

"You're safe here, my dearest friend," Haurchefant replied, tucking helplessness away from his heart that he had nothing else to offer her. "You can rest, and you may mourn for as long as you require."

Her breath hitched once more, but she descended not into the shaking sobs that had wracked her so earlier. She pulled away from his chest, and revealed how the Warrior's face had reddened, her eyes swollen. Her hair had tangled where he had held her tightly to his skin, and there were tears yet clinging to her skin.

She was tragedy incarnate, beautiful in her misfortune, beautiful despite it.

Haurchefant reached out, gently rubbing his thumb along the rivulets that cautiously descended down her cheek. She caught his hand under hers, keeping it in place.

“I wasn’t enough. I’ve destroyed primals, destroyed an Ascian and yet--I was unable to save my friends from _man_.” The Warrior’s words were full of an inexplicable plea. “How could lust for gold be greater than the might of primals? Than the insidious hate of Ascians? Haurchefant," she repeated, desperation lacing her voice. She pulled his hand from her countenance, placing it firmly to her breast. "I don't want to think. I--I could ask this only from you, my friend. Please, take me until I could not think."

His breath caught, and his fingers curled into a fist against her chest. Under the thin fabric of her bodice, finely wrought and utterly lacking the armour she tended to wear, he could feel her heart pounding beneath his skin.

He could not take advantage of her, the embodiment of all that was good in this world.

She watched him with heartbreak painting her features and grief carved into her soul. Beneath his fist, she trembled. Like so many before him, he crumbled beneath the weight of her gaze.

"Of course, my dearest Warrior." Haurchefant whispered.

He would sully her, take advantage of her grief with his reckless and selfish desires. How would he ever claim to have honour after this?

* * *

Had this been another time, had she not been so caught by her misery, he would have taken his time undressing her. Had this been another time, wherein he courted her with the respect that she was due, he would have let her know the glory that he found within the very act. He had dreamt of making love to her gently, slowly, devotedly; worshiping every ilm of her as was her due.

In this moment she gave him no such opportunity, her hands pulling at his gambeson until he aided her in removing it, her hands then wrenching at torn and bloodied finery that she yet wore from that disastrous night in Ul'dah. The dress fell in tatters onto the floor, ripped at the seams by careless hands.

She sat upon his lap in nothing but her smallclothes, stockings and shoes, blood and bruises yet painting her skin where she had been forced to fight. Around her waist lay marks left behind by a tight corset, lines indenting her skin where the ribbing had pressed in. Where her skin was unmarred, it was paler than his own.

"Careful, my friend," Haurchefant cautioned as her hands moved to her hair, dragging roughly through her curls to pull free what jewellery had managed to remain. He took hold of her hands, pulling them from her hair. "Allow me…"

Ere he could aid her, she fell forward, pressing her lips to his own. Her teeth caught against his lips, and he hissed at the unexpected pain.

The Warrior kissed him desperately, devouring his mouth with a veracity he was hard-pressed to match. Her eyes were clenched shut, hiding her whiskey-gold eyes from view. Her hands found his, and he tangled their fingers together before she could inflict any other manner of self-destruction into herself.

The grip she had on his hand was suffocatingly tight, desperation lending to her strength greater than she already had. She pressed him against the back of the settee, forcing his head to tilt back in order to meet her hungry mouth.

As Haurchefant ran his hand up the length of her spine, he could feel droplets, warm and salty, hit his countenance. Her tears continue to fall silently onto him even as he pulled her free of her smallclothes, leaving her utterly bare upon his lap.

The Warrior's arms came around his neck as he kissed a line down from her lips to her shoulder, as reverently as she would allow. Her shoulder shook as his hand traced up her thigh, finding her warmth between.

"I'm sorry," she gasped out, and he bowed his head over her breast. Even as he kissed her chest and brushed his fingers against her most intimate of crevices, she whispered out, "I'm so sorry, Minfilia."

Haurchefant wished at once that he had had no ears to hear with, as her resolve broke and she began to speak. Sorrow flowed from her lips unhalting as snowmelt streams, speaking of secrets that he should have never heard otherwise.

The loss of her Blessing of Light; her covenant with the father of dragons, _Midgardsormr_ himself… He could only grit his teeth and touch her, fingers slipping against and into her folds.

She had wept once more as he lay her against the cushions, hiding her face behind a raised arm as he pressed his fingers into her. She had sobbed the names of her fallen comrades as he rubbed circles into her clitoris, apologising over and over with increasingly broken cries. She had found her release over and over again beneath him, each crest she rode leaving her more and more incoherent.

Her throat had long since gone hoarse, and yet she had continued to cry out--his name, now, in a vain plea.

He had touched her, pressed his mouth against her, tasted her with his tongue and he had violated her with it over and over. Digging deep inside of her, spurred on by her gasps and her whimpers, he had thrust his mouth against her sex and felt her clench around his tongue.

Her folds dripped myrrh, yet he could find not much satisfaction in this act for all that the Warrior had begged for him silently, grabbing at his hair and grinding against his lips. Through it all, he could only pray to Halone with a silent tongue that She would ease the Warrior's pain.

The Warrior of Light, whose countenance was red from the exertion as he pleasured her to her brink once more, and her eyes were wet with tears both grieving and exhausted. Her thighs shuddered on either side of his neck.

"Haurchefant," she cried aloud, or tried to. Her words came as parched as desert soil, dry and crumbling from the bells of constant use. "Kiss me, please."

He was ever supplicant to her desires, and he rose to kiss her with lips that yet tasted of her intimacy. Her legs came to wrap around his waist, pulling him in.

He let out a gasp, his neglected desire pressed hard against the warmth between her legs. He fought not to rut against her, even as she swayed against him. Though the cloth of his pantalons separated them, he knew she would be wet and warm, and he would not last even a moment within nor against her.

He would not take advantage of her in this way.

It was only by Halone’s will that she was yet oblivious to his struggle. Her fingers slipped from his head to rest upon his shoulders. Her breathing was harsh against his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered against his mouth, faint and tremulous. "I have asked too much of you today. Forgive me, for begging so selfish and awful a favour from you."

"Always, Warrior," Haurchefant said, his voice strained. "You needn't beg forgiveness when you already have been forgiven from the start."

She stared up at him, her eyes soft with lethargy. She caressed his cheek, and she kissed him again softly. Unlike the previous times, her lips were gentle, and she kissed him as if he were her lover. Passionately, ardently, with a soft sigh as she sank beneath him.

"I have taken advantage of your kindness. How would I repay you? Could I ever?" She asked, each subsequent question becoming quieter and fainter.

He could answer her not; kindness had not been the sole reason for his deed. Haurchefant used her weakening grip to pull away, lifting her pliant body into his arms. 

Exhausted, the Warrior had fallen asleep the moment he had her placed her upon his mattress. Vulnerable and pliant in her sleep, he had taken the time to cleanse her skin of the events of the day, reverently passing a soaked linen across his skin. Only when she was free of dust and salt, and her long hair freed of its trappings, had he pulled his duvets over her. Her countenance was finally at rest, her brow smooth and her cheeks slack with sleep.

It was arresting, more so now that he knew the way her voice sounded when she moaned, and he had tasted what lay between her legs. She was captivating in the way that untouchable objects were; desirable and forbidden.

He stroked her cheek, watching as she pressed her countenance into the pillow beneath her head, her hair tousled across his sheets. The other side of his bed lay empty, but lay in there he would not.

Dressing himself once more, Haurchefant took leave of his quarters to the small chapel located within Camp Dragonhead, ensconcing himself in the gravitas of Halone's holy place.

He sat in prayer, thinking not of her hands against his skin.


	2. Denouement

They spoke not of this encounter in the following days. Somehow, by some magic and miracle, the shadows beneath her eyes had eased and her smiles came easier.

The remaining Scions lived in Camp Dragonhead with a dulling sense of grief as Haurchefant and Ser Aymeric’s correspondence grew more frequent, and the tone of the letters became more optimistic. They would soon be allowed into Ishgard with the full support of the Lord Commander as well as his own father’s.

In this time of waiting, the Warrior had not left his bed.

His quarters were no longer solely his. Her memory would cling to the stone walls of his room, her scent would imbue his sheets, and he would no longer be able to sit within these walls and not think of how she would spend each night entangled in his sheets, her arms holding tight the pillows with which he had once used to lay.

Haurchefant had ignored the quiet and sly murmurs of the maids that serviced the keep, and took note not of the frowns that Alphinaud sent his way. He would not have the Warrior’s honour marred by his own actions, though he would not begrudge her the use of his bed for comfort. He had once offered it to her, after all, in the hearing of his men.

He spent no nights in his bed these days, whiling away at the twilight hours at his desk.

Through this time, the Warrior’s hair stayed unbound, and Haurchefant could recall the deceptive silk of her black locks, and how the fur upon her neck was velvet.

He sought absolution from Halone far more regularly now than ever before, seeking Her grace to keep sinful thoughts of her away.

It was near maddening how the briefest taste of the Warrior had left him wanting for more, even in full knowledge of her mourning and her secrets.

She seemed unaffected by such lust, her countenance placid as she spoke with him.

Or so it seemed, until she asked one late evening: “Are you so discomfited with the idea of sharing your bed with me, Lord Haurchefant?”

Haurchefant startled from the perch at his desk, eyes wide as he stared at her. He hadn’t heard the door open or the Warrior slip in, so preoccupied with his various documents.

At the door, he could see that she was dressed for the night and not for roaming the keep. Wearing no shoes nor cloak, with solely a simple cream shift covering her form, she seemed not to care for the biting cold of the night. She had no doubt walked through the snow to arrive here, shielded not from the wind. She closed the door behind her, and it clicked shut loudly in the silence of the room.

He swiftly averted his eyes from her, the exposed skin of her ankles and the thin curve of her wrists, ere she would catch his wandering gaze. “What ever do you mean by that, Warrior?” He asked, staring down at the parchment lining his desk.

“I would not have you stay at your desk another night. You have been kind enough, and I have been robbing you of restful sleep,” the Warrior stated, her countenance no doubt weighed down with guilt as her voice was. “I will retire to the rooms that you had originally lent me. But please, Haurchefant--take repose in your own bed. Stay not at your desk until the morning comes.”

“Warrior--I have told you once before that my bed is yours if only you should ask of it from me.” Haurchefant replied, setting his quill down and standing up. He glanced at her countenance, and he saw how her expression bespoke of worry. "You find comfort in it, and I would deny you not of it."

He would suffer eternally sleepless nights if it brought the Warrior of Light some measure of peace.

“Then deny me not the wish to see you hale and hearty, as you have so helped me.” The Warrior bowed her head, her eyes lowering to view not his own but to stare at his hands.

Haurchefant hesitantly moved forward, towards her. “If that is what you wish, then I could not refuse. I shall take back my bed this eve. Will you retire now to your rooms?” He asked. “If so, then please—take this cloak and allow me to accompany you to your door. I would not have you freeze in this weather.”

Pulling his cloak from his own shoulders, holding it out for her to take. The Warrior glanced up at him, then back to the cloak, and she took it from his hand. She wrapped the wool around her shoulders, and it draped her form to cover it—hiding a form that he now knew far too much of.

He looked away, to her countenance once more.

"Haurchefant… I fear that I must admit, tis not the bed that brings me comfort," she admitted. He had come close enough to see how her cheeks had blushed rose from the cold.

If not the bed, then what?

"Pray tell me then, what comforts you?"

She was quiet for some time.

"Is it yet not obvious?" The Warrior asked, plaintive in her tone.

A nervousness made itself known in the pit of his stomach birthed by the nervousness in her own countenance. As she wrung her brittle fingers, so too did Haurchefant’s heart. It was anticipation, a strange form of worry.

She turned her head, and she was lovely to him. "It is _you_ , gentle knight. You comfort me, and bring me peace of heart. My most kindly friend, who would deny me nothing."

Bewilderment silenced him, and he stared at her with eyes wide.

“Mayhap I have ruined any potential of relationship by asking you to bed me that night. Perhaps you cannot consider me in a respectful light, having seen the depths of me—and the terrible things that lay within. Mayhap I have hurt you—you hardly look at me in mine eyes now, and I… I would apologise for that, for hurting you.” The Warrior’s fingers took hold of the hem of his cloak, and she gripped it tightly. “My grief made me choose poorly decisions, and now, I fear I have lost your friendship.”

“Warrior—no, my friend! You could never lose my respect,” Haurchefant quickly exclaimed. “You have not hurt me, nor have you destroyed our friendship. Not in the slightest! I hadn’t—the reason for which I, that is to say, the reason why I have not been able to meet thine eyes is that…” He could see her without recalling the satin of her skin or her fingers in his hair. He could not admit such things so candidly. He fell silent, unable to find the words to say.

“You need not explain yourself to me, Haurchefant,” she murmured quietly, when he had been silent for too long.

But he did bear such need.

It was time for him to shirk the cowardice and sin that had haunted him since that night. He was a knight of House Fortemps, and he very well must needs act it.

“I could not look you in the eye,” he replied firmly, raising his eyes to meet hers, “for I recall your grief every time. And I would most ardently, most awfully wish to help you with it once more, in that same regard as I had before.”

Her breath caught, and she looked at him with her ember-bright eyes.

Haurchefant continued: “However, I could not bear the thought of bedding you in such a manner, not without having you know the extent of my ardour for you. I could not touch you without having you know of the desire that haunts me each time that I do.

“For you my friend, the Warrior of Light… I would burn under the flames of Nidhogg’s brood upon your word. I would be your shield and your sword to every battle that you fight. I would suffer a thousand nights in the depths of the Vale should only you request it of me. I would have you use me as you will, so long as you know that I love you most fiercely and without reserve.”

“Haurchefant…” She called out, her mien a bright red at his feverish words of devotion.

“You have not lost my friendship,” he murmured softly. He said her name, softly and reverently. “I fear that I may lose yours, knowing that I took advantage of your grief to bed you.”

And they were both silent, watching each other with most caution in their minds.

The Warrior pulled his cloak tighter around herself, and she bowed her head. He could see her shoulders shake, and he was caught between the urge to pull her into his arms and to resist for she may now find his touch repulsive.

“Oh, sweet knight of Fortemps…” She raised her head once more, her eyes bright with tears. There was a wavering smile on her countenance. “How has grief sparked such great joy? Is the price of happiness loss? I could have never even hoped that you would feel the same.”

She let go of his cloak, and she spread her arms.

“Could you truly be mine?” The Warrior asked.

He immediately stepped forth and took her into his arms, embracing her tightly. Pressing his face to her neck, he could feel naught but ecstasy, relief, divine peace within his heart and her most glorious form pressed against his own. His heart pounded within his chest, and her breath trembled in his ear.

“I am yours,” Haurchefant promised.

* * *

The Warrior was light within his arms for all her great height, and she laughed most joyously as he carried her up the snow-dusted steps to his quarters. He cared not for what spectacle they made as she took hold of his cheek and kissed him.

He continued to kiss her, feel her lips smile against his, as they fumbled at the door, unable to open it with hands distracted by touching each other.

She was smiling as she pulled away from his lips, turning to wretch the door open.

Striking in the elegant arch of her neck, the quiet strength of her shoulders, he was but chaff in the wind before her. She was a marvel, a fantastical creature born of Light, and she was his.

Even as she turned the lock, he leaned in, sucking upon the skin of her neck where it peeked over the collar of his cloak. In her surprise, the door flung open and she stumbled into his quarters on shaken feet, a startled sound escaping her.

He followed her in, and he took hold of her ere she could fall.

“I prayed,” he whispered against her neck, his arms going around her waist. “I prayed before Halone for forgiveness when I thought of you like this. I had dreamt of taking you from behind, as we are right now.”

With his foot, he blindly kicked his door shut, and he swiftly pulled at her skirts. Gathering them up and exposing the Warrior’s legs, he moved one of his hands between her thighs. She now was tucked against his chest, the sinuous length of her back arching to fit against him.

“You are not dreaming now,” the Warrior replied, sounding breathless as he had never heard before. She moaned as he touched her delicately, fingers finding her folds rather unerringly. He pressed into her not, touching her lightly and rubbing circles against her clitoris. “Have you also thought of taking me where I stand, Haurchefant?” She then asked. “I have. Yet I have prayed not to a single god.” Wickedness dripped from her words, as her lust dripped between her legs.

Like a bolt of levin was struck through him, he gasped at the thought of the Warrior, overcome by the same desires as he had. Had she thought of him as ardently as he had dreamt of her? It was nearly enough for him to ask her of her fantasies, to bring them to reality as she wished… But no, that was not his intention.

“I would like to make love to you first on my bed,” Haurchefant murmured. “The floor is not where I had hoped to first take you.”

The Warrior, maddening in her beauty, smiled at him over her shoulder. Her hair tumbled down her back, loose and free, and she arrested him with her eyes. “You’ve opportunity to do so at a later time,” she agreed. He kissed her then, overcome by his emotion—for _later_ meant they had a future together. “Show me how you would have me love you, knight mine.”

“Then let us undress, and make our way to the bed.”

Haurchefant let go of her, and he watched as she pulled the sleeves of her shift over her shoulders, letting the chiffon fall to the floor. She touched not the cloak upon her shoulders, and pulled her smallclothes off to reveal her full form in its nudity. So framed by the woollen fabric of his cloth, she made him molten with hunger for her.

Impatient, he tore at his chainmail and his gambeson, cursing quietly the many latches that kept his armour so secure against his body. His gauntlets and vambraces soon fell to the floor, as did his pauldrons. Her hands joined his, freeing him from his cuisse and greaves—and when he chanced looking at her, he found her kneeling to his side, peering up at him with bright eyes.

“Mayhap you shouldn’t wear your armour henceforth,” she remarked. “Else it would be a pain to undress you every time I wish you to bed me.”

“My friend—come here.”

He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, his hands laying rest upon her waist. He rubbed his thumb against her sides, feeling her ribs beneath his fingers and the swell of her breast against his fingertips. She laughed and she moaned into his mouth as he continued to touch her, caring not for the clothing he had yet to remove.

The pressure of his hand had her stepped backwards, their pace slow but measured for the Warrior soon fell back onto his bed, her hair painting black rivers of silk against his sheets.

He fell upon her, kissing her from lips to navel, unable to stop himself from seeking a second taste of what lay between her legs.

Pliant to his unspoken desire, she parted her legs, hands tangling into his hair as he brought his lips against her folds. Her moans were as intoxicating as they were last, in fact moreso as they lacked the grief that had so insistently plagued her since her arrival.

She twisted beneath his mouth as he lapped at her, savouring her with his tongue. Pushing into her, he heard her gasp out his name and felt her clench around him.

Each thrust of his tongue had her shake, and when he broke away to kiss at her clitoris, fingers moving to replace where his tongue had been, her fingers tightened in his hair.

“‘Chefant!” His name was broken upon her lips. He pulled away from between her legs, and she looked at him with her amber eyes. They were hazy, dazed from the pleasure that he had been given her. “I have already felt your hands and your mouth. I would have you fully this time, else not at all.”

Even without such an ultimatum, Haurchefant could not deny her. He stood back up onto his feet and pulled carelessly at his laces, pushing his pantalons down enough that he could satisfy the Warrior.

She reached out to touch him, her fingers wrapping around his member. He could scarcely breathe as she stroked him, her soft palm heaven upon the weeping hardness of his arousal. With gentle tugs as guidance, she pulled him to her, pressing his tip against her folds.

“You have me, Warrior mine.” He was fervent in his lustful intoxication. “You have all of me.”

“Not yet,” she said. “Not yet.”

Her knees were on either side of his hips, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. Her hand yet lay between them, holding him in place against her. With constant pressure from her knees against him, he pressed himself into her, gasping quietly at the wet warmth that gripped him.

The Warrior moaned, throwing her head back. He fell upon her neck, so exposed now for his lips to caress, kissing the arch of her throat.

Ilm by ilm, he took her—or mayhap, she took him, her hands in his hair and encapsulating his every sense. Slow thrusts, in and out, allowed him to breach her body, and through it all he kissed her.

Her heaving breast, her shaking arms, her lips and nose and cheeks, no place was left untouched. He discovered the scars upon her skin, the hidden marks that lay beneath her clothes; he paid each ilm of her body the worship it was due.

When at least he was fully sheathed within her, she trembled beneath him. He stilled, so taken by the sight of her.

A soft, hiccupping laugh left her.

“I had thought that you would not fit within me,” she admitted, resting her hand upon her abdomen. Her flesh was distended where he lay beneath; the press of her hand was a strange and distant pressure. “Fain am I that you could.”

Haurchefant bowed his head, pressing his mien to her shoulder and releasing a shaky breath into her chest. Her hand slipped from where it lay between them to settle upon his crown, caressing him gently.

Had he the strength or mind to speak, he would have spoken endless praise for her, and verbalise his adoration of her. He was addled by her, wrapped up entirely by her presence, and he could say naught more than the desperate shape of her name. He called for her helplessly, her name a prayer upon his lips.

"I could not last within you," he whispered, even as sly fingers touched his ears and sent levin down his spine. "Do not touch me so,"

In her words there was a smile. “I need not you to last, Haurchefant. I shall have you as many times as you allow, my love.”

He trembled unto her words, and her fingers were now replaced by lips and tongue and teeth. Sensitive his elezen ears were; the Warrior was determined to unravel him.

Haurchefant groaned, and he took hold of her hips.

The slow, slick friction between them soon had the Warrior twist beneath him, grabbing at the cloak beneath her tightly. The desperate clutch of her hands spurred him forth.

Each thrust drew forth sounds from her lips, and soon moans turned to words of plea.

Ere long, he could feel his peak approach. She grabbed for his hands, tangling their fingers together. She kissed their enjoined hands, his knuckles pressed to her countenance. Her eyes, amber and bright with aetherial light, were affixed to his own.

He was finished, undone by her gaze. Crumbling before her eyes, he had only just the presence of mind to pull himself out of her, spilling his seed upon the sheets.

Her legs trembled on either side of him, and she pushed their fists between her thighs. His hand now lay flat against her folds, and she shuddered under his palm.

"Please, Haurchefant," she cried. And in the aftermath of his pleasure he touched her, greedily thrust his fingers into her until she too found her peak.

She tensed beneath him, her head tossed to one side. Each bold line of her body was in relief against the softness of his sheets, and she gripped his fingers tightly within her. Her hands were a vice around his wrist until her tremors died down, and she sagged against his bed with a sigh.

She opened her eyes and gazed upon him. Letting go of his arms and allowing him to pull his fingers free from her body, she pushed her hair to the side with slick fingers.

Her smile was radiant, for all that exhaustion clung to its corners. She was rapturous in her pleasure.

"I fear we have made a mess of your cloak, Haurchefant."

"Worry not," he replied. "I would have sacrificed all of my cloaks if it would please you." He aided her in unthreading the rope that yet held the cloth to her shoulders, and the Warrior shifted to pull the cloak out from underneath herself, pushing it to the side of the bed.

"What pleases me is if you would lay down with me," she murmured. "Let us repose now that we have consummated our love."

Haurchefant was as helpless to stop himself from smiling as he could a storm. "Of course, my heart," he agreed, scarcely able to believe in such a thing.

He crawled over her, pulling off the remaining clothing he yet wore from his legs and chest. He soon was as bare as she, and she pressed herself to him as he lay down, hiding her countenance into his neck. The Warrior's ears were satin against his cheek, and he touched them curiously, feeling how they twitched under his touch.

"I yet wonder if this is a dream, and that when I lay my head to rest, I would wake to find that you did not feel the same for me," he said.

"Then we have dreamt of the same dream, and I would seek you out to bring it to reality in the morn," she replied quietly. She pressed her countenance to his chest, rubbing her skin against his breast as if to nuzzle it. "Let us worry about dreams when dawn arrives; you have days of sleep on which to catch up, and I find your heartbeat incredibly soothing."

Once more, Haurchefant said, "Of course. Sleep well, Warrior mine." He ran his fingers through her hair, and he watched her as she soon fell into slumber upon him. He took no leave this time to the chapel, and he kissed her temple gently and reverently.

He would think not until the morning bells tolled, so wrapped around his Warrior of Light and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like most men, I finish terribly. Badum tshh.


End file.
